


Friendlier Than a Snapping Turtle

by polariscope



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Mechanic!Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-03
Updated: 2012-08-03
Packaged: 2017-11-11 09:02:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/476859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polariscope/pseuds/polariscope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on <a href="http://wormstash.tumblr.com/post/28603550130/deansasschester-teen-wolf-human-au-derek-is">this photoset</a> prompt that was going around tumblr. <i><b>Teen Wolf human!AU</b></i>: Derek is Stiles' hot mechanic and, oops, the jeep keeps 'breaking down'.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>"You got this... look. Thing. Going on. Like your eyebrows want to attack each other."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Friendlier Than a Snapping Turtle

In his life, Stiles has managed to accomplish a sizable list of extremely stupid things. This time, however, he may as well be catapulting right past ‘stupid’ and landing in the territory of ‘stupid’s estranged brother that lurks like a goblin in his mother’s basement.’

Naturally, then, it’s just another wonderful day in the life of Stiles Stilinski: today, featuring adventures in gawking shamelessly at unsuspecting mechanics. Also, lessons in how to avoid fidgeting on tiny, plastic, butt-mutilating chairs (characteristic of only the best car garages), lest one feels the need to start awkwardly rubbing their ass.

At the moment, Stiles’ gaze is, quite pathetically, glued to his Jeep’s resident grease monkey-slash-Adonis, more officially known as Mr. Derek Hale, and sometimes unofficially referred to as ‘Mr. How-do-you-even-manage-to-look-like-that-in-a-tank-top-with-your-insanely-chiseled-arms-and-back-muscles-flexing-like-sex-on-a-Sunday-morning’ in the corny, dark confines of Stiles’ brain (and, yes, Stiles has been whittling away the time coming up with alternate versions to that title).

His phone vibrates, and it's another hysteric text from Scott attempting to rationalize why the hell Stiles would willingly ruin his Jeep for a third time. Stiles ignores it and silently decides that he's definitely going to have to pick up another job to pay for this. His dad may have bought the "well, I ran into a small tree and now the Jeep’s making a noise" excuse and the subsequent "it's still making that noise?" bit, but he isn't likely to buy, "my engine's dead because I dumped multiple gallons of water into it?" Or, “drove it into a lake,” which was the lie Stiles supplied to his criminally hot mechanic.

After several more minutes of poorly-concealed staring, Stiles feels the onset of a bad idea. Since he never manages to ignore those, he ends up jumping off his chair and walking over to where Derek is siphoning water from his carburetor. He ducks a little under his Jeep and is rewarded with an in-his-face view of a glistening, sculpted chest and an impressively angular jaw line set in concentration.

' _Really, Stiles?_ ' he thinks. ‘ _Glistening, sculpted chest? Angular jaw line?_ '

Man, he wants to punch this guy for turning him into a fourteen year old girl who eats romance novels for breakfast.

But then make out with him afterwards. Preferably. Because Derek has nice lips.

"Can I help you?"

"Nah, I'm cool," Stiles answers immediately, and slowly realizes that, oh wait, that was _Derek_ talking to him. And now Derek's staring at him. Because he's staring at Derek. Derek staring at Stiles staring at Derek staring at Stiles. Well, he could live with that.

Stiles curses to himself and tries to focus, managing to rip his eyes away from Derek's mouth. "Um,” Stiles starts. “Well, hi, uh— just wondering if you got anything new in the machines this time? Something sweet? Candy, maybe?"

Stiles ventures for some eye contact, but Derek, who, Stiles thinks, has a serious problem with frowning, brassily turns his head back up to the car. He feels as if he was just the victim of a pair of rolled eyes.

"Once again, Mr. Stilinski, our vending machines do not have candy." 

Stiles shoots him a pointed look, which goes unnoticed. " _Once again_ ," he mocks. "Don't call me Mr. Stilinski. It's Stiles, STI-UHLS. And how can you have a vending machine with no candy? Blasphemous, dude. What’s the point of having a vending machine, then? You like candy, right?"

The garage falls quiet as Derek flagrantly ignores him.

Stiles huffs and tries a different tactic. "Well, fine, if I go get some chocolate or whatever from the gas station a couple blocks down, would you want any?"

Derek, somehow, succeeds in frowning even _more_ , features morphing into an expression Stiles thinks is just plain creepy. Which he articulates.

“What's wrong with your face."

Derek doesn't spare him a glance. "Nothing’s wrong with my face."

"You got this... look. Thing. Going on. Like your eyebrows want to attack each other,” Stiles declares, curling his hands into faux-claws and miming angry chomping. “All, RARRRHHHGH?”

Derek's head whips in his direction, and Stiles flinches embarrassingly at the sudden onslaught of Derek... face.

"Move. Now.”

Stiles quickly takes a few steps back, shifting out of the way as Derek twists to press a button on a remote. The platform holding his Jeep abruptly begins to lower to the ground, accompanied by the most obnoxious beeping ever created. The machine makes a loud, toe-curling screech of impending doom as it stops, which, remarkably, Derek doesn’t acknowledge. He simply dips his head to lean over the engine, disregarding that the same wail of death and destruction that prompted Stiles’ hands to fly up to his face in terror.

There’s a long moment, and Stiles’ heart rate drops to something below that of a sleeping mouse, before Derek demands, “do you need anything else?” 

(Stiles has come to discover that Derek’s the type of guy that never bothers to hide his impatience.)

"Not really, just trying to seduce you into sugar addiction?" Stiles hums blithely, donning a smile. Derek stops and shoots the briefest glimpse Stiles’ way before focusing again on a protruding cable.

Nothing. Absolutely nada. Not a twitch.

Honestly, Stiles just wants one damn crack in that infuriatingly permanent frown of his. ' _New nickname,_ ' Stiles thinks, ' _Mr. Domo-arigato-big-ol’-roboto-no-expression-needed-because-I'm-a-big-broody-butthead-who’s-too-freakin’-cool-to-emote._ ' 

Nailed it.

"If you don't mind?” Derek emphasizes, retracting his hand from somewhere under the hood to wipe grime onto his jeans and gesture Stiles away. “I’m working.”

“Nope, I don't mind,” Stiles counters wryly. He’s always been appallingly stubborn. “Are you sure you don’t want me to pick you up something?”

Derek lets out an irritated breath and obstinately continues to examine the Jeep, refusing to acknowledge Stiles’ offer entirely. An uncomfortable five or so minutes pass, and Stiles begins to shift uneasily on his feet, deliberating whether or not to keep talking. The thing is, if Stiles stops trying to get an actual conversation out of him, it would be like giving up, and Stiles can’t do that. Not simply because he’s freakishly enamored with the guy or even that he’s too damn pigheaded to concede, but because he’s also paying a hell of a lot of money for it. Jesus, he actually dumped multiple buckets of lake water into his own engine just to get another chance to talk to him. What kind of moron does that?

Stiles sighs, biting his lip. He’s struggling to think of _something_ to initiate conversation with, something that’s a lot less creepy than, “there’s a smudge of grease on your cheek in the shape of a turtle and it’s weirdly adorable, but it seriously clashes with your prickly personality because turtles are friendly—well, maybe not snapping turtles— but I honestly believe you are probably friendlier than a snapping turtle; though, I don’t know for sure and I’d like to find out, so would you like to go on a date with me?”¬

Stiles swallows, frustrated. He doesn’t understand how the hell people manage to do this. Why don’t they make guidebooks for this type of thing? Stiles doubts “Flirting 101 for Dopes Who Can’t Tell If Their Sexy Mechanic is into Guys Too (in Particular a Short, Hyperactive Customer-y One)” is ever going to appear on any bookshelves.

Well. He can blame the world for being uneducated.

“So, uh,” Stiles starts, because uncomfortable silences are the bane of his existence and that one was _really long_ and god, he’s trying desperately to ignore a bead of sweat mapping a twisty line down one of Derek’s sideburns. “You don't like candy, then. Got a favorite food? Or whatever? You like turtles?” Stiles pauses awkwardly. “Err, okay. Let’s not talk about turtles. Turtles are lame. Actually, they aren’t but, right— so, favorite stuff? Movies? Feel free to, y’know, talk about what you want.”

Derek continues hovering under over the engine as if he didn’t hear a word; at one point, he twists a coil with so much intent that it squeaks audibly in protest and snaps off. He swears loudly.

But Derek doesn’t look at Stiles at all.

Well, alright. Ouch. It’s like Stiles can hear the tiny life left in his almost-conversation flat-lining. Oh, hey, director of Stiles’ life? You there? Cue crickets, please?

“Um,” Stiles persists, because silences, seriously: Bane. Of. His. Existence. And, as aforementioned, he’s stubborn as hell.

“…Earth to my mechanic?”

Cricket.

“How’s life going?”

Cricket, cricket.

“Hello?” Stiles drones again. “Hellloooo?”

And that seems to do it. Derek snaps his head towards Stiles, glaring and slamming a hand down on the edge of the car. “Can you _please_ leave and let me get this done already? Don’t you want your Jeep by the end of the damn day?”

Stiles jolts, thrown by the abrupt attention after fifteen minutes of being ignored. And, not knowing how to handle the wrath of Derek’s scowl of death, Stiles, of course, starts to babble like an idiot. “Hey, no worries. It's totally cool, man. To-ta-lly cool. I don’t care if it's delayed a bit. Tomorrow’s _fine_. No rush for me, really. All good. All good in the neighborhood. Take your time. Look at you. You don’t have to work so hard. All sweaty and frowny. Relax. You should get out in the sun more. Well, you’re already, uh, pretty nice and tan, so not that you’re pale or anything! But for, um, vitamin D! Good stuff. Vitamin D’s fun. Like relaxing, which you should do more of.”

Derek has turned to face him completely by this point, mouth agape; Stiles looks on as his face twists into a crazy mix of confusion, disbelief, and pure frustration. Stiles almost wants to be impressed that it can even do that, but, being on the receiving end of such an expression, it’s more difficult to appreciate.

“Yes, thanks, because _clearly_ you're the only customer I have,” Derek barks. And oh, Stiles notices, Derek’s now standing upright and rigid, arms crossed in defense, which is, well, a tad menacing. He sort of looks like a big, scary tower. A strange tower, though. Made of sexy, angry mechanic and stuff.

Tentatively, Stiles goes for a sly grin, because he’s feeling meek and embarrassed and upset that he doesn’t know how to do anything right by this guy. And, whenever that happens, he falls back on humor to defend himself.

“Come on,” Stiles croons, topped with a brazen smile. “I'm the only customer that matters, right?” He adds in an overly flirtatious wink. “I know you like me best.”

Wrong decision. Derek’s expression freezes into something alarmingly dark that Stiles has not seen once in all his visits.

' _Fuck_ ', Stiles thinks. He can feel his stomach drop. He battles to hold his smile in place, as he does every time, because he knows what comes next here. It always happens.

But, god, Stiles didn’t want it to happen with Derek. For some crazy reason, and who even knows why, Stiles wanted this; it felt different this time. For once, something seemed right, and it was enough for Stiles to purposely break his car and consider picking up another job to pay for it and throw all inhibition towards flirting out the window— but Stiles did it again. He can feel Derek on that edge, and Stiles shields himself for the worst. He knows, _knows_ , that Derek’s face is going to become like all the other faces, the ones that judged and bullied and humiliated him, told him he was weird. The ones that thought they were superior, who’d condescend and laugh, because they were better than this stupid, hyperactive kid that had no filter and would say so many inappropriate, socially awkward things.

Stiles curses himself with as much self-disgust as he can muster up. An insanely attractive and potentially gay mechanic? Wow, Stiles. What _horrifically_ wishful thinking that was. Talk about being out of his pathetic little league.

Stiles takes a breath to calm down. Honestly, he is used to this. And at least Stiles will only have to see him again when he picks up his Jeep. He’ll apologize now, leave, and—

“Fine.”

Stiles blinks rapidly out of his daze, quickly fighting to escape from his web of thoughts. 

“Fine?” Stiles echoes, watching carefully as Derek stares back at him. 

Derek’s dark expression has gradually fallen, smoothing into a bit of a smirk.

Stiles closes and opens his eyes quickly— once, twice. It’s still there. He’s never seen this before. Derek’s smirking at him. Almost grinning.

“Wait, what?” Stiles burbles, scrambling not to sound dumbfounded.

“I said, ‘fine.’ Why don’t you go get me a Mounds bar? I like those.”

Suddenly, for some reason, Stiles feels as if he’s been bitchslapped by adrenaline, and there’s a freaky sort of spasm going on in his chest that he’s never experienced before.

“Uh,” Stiles concludes brilliantly, and Derek’s left eyebrow rises spectacularly high. Whoa. How does his eyebrow even do that? There could be, like, eyebrow Olympics for that type of height. Okay, pay attention now, Stiles, ignore the eyebrow.

“Wait, okay, what? A what bar?” Stiles chatters. “You’re cool with this? You want me to go get something for you?”

“Stiles.” And, _oh_. That’s the first time Derek has ever used his name— shit, Stiles, what is going on with your chest, and why is your left hand shaking? Stop it, body; that’s strange.

“Stiles?”

Stiles joggles his head back and forth a little in order to reestablish himself. “Yeah, yeah, I’m here. What?”

“It’s just a candy bar,” Derek deadpans, pausing roguishly in between each word. “Mounds bar. You can handle that?”

“Yes, yep, you bet,” Stiles answers rapidly. “One Mounds bar coming up for D-H the mechanic. Awesome. And hey, it’s on me, yeah? Like a tip or something. Well, you’ll get a tip too, but this one’s like a tip for your tongue— “

Stiles stops because Derek fixes him with a _look_. A weird, intense look. Stiles doesn’t know how to describe it in a word, but it’s an odd concoction of, say, eight parts high-jumping-eyebrow-induced judgment, four parts scorn, and five parts fiendish amusement. Which makes it a seventeen-part look. Somehow, Stiles likes it, even if it seems... rude.

Stiles pats down his pocket to make sure he’s got his wallet, and he’s biting a part of his cheek to keep a dopey smile off his face (lest he freak Derek the hell out) when he realizes something.

“Wait,” Stiles begins. “I don’t think they have Mounds bars at the gas station, do they?”

Derek chooses this moment to lean far over the engine, effectively hiding his expression, and Stiles later suspects it may have been something infuriatingly cocky. “You’re right. The gas station doesn’t have them.”

Stiles digests this information, painfully aware that his car is sitting useless two feet away from him, and that his Dad, Scott, and anyone else are all, at the moment, working.

“Uh, the nearest grocery store is like an hour away on foot, Der—Mr.Hal— dude?” Stiles finishes awkwardly. Smooth. Real smooth there, Stiles. He attempts to ignore the pole-vaulting eyebrow Derek shoots his way afterwards.

Stiles sulks; he’s hadn’t liked calling Derek ‘Mr. Hale’ the handful of times he’s done so, and he’s been in a routine of avoiding it; unfortunately, he has yet to get permission to use ‘Derek’ in any place other than his brain. And now that they’re having somewhat of a proper conversation? Well.

“You offered, _Stiles_ ,” Derek purposely mocks, mimicking his slip-up.

Damn him. Why did Stiles have to fall for a massively-unhelpful-arrogant-sarcastic-sexy-as-hell-lameface-mechanic. Stiles almost prefers the Derek of twenty minutes ago: tight-lipped, broody, and stupidly handsome (which, fine, yes, he still is), instead of all this... cheekiness.

“I offered stuff from the _gas station_!” Stiles protests, fighting an urge to walk over and smack him upside the head when he’s not looking (and, oh, it’s so tempting). 

Derek produces a nonchalant noise. “Hey, you were the one that kept saying you’d get me some candy. Plus,” Derek stresses. “It would give me plenty of time to get your Jeep done.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and runs a hand through his small amount of hair, sighing loudly. “Yes, I see what you’ve done here. Very clever, mister mechanic.”

Derek curves his neck to leer straight at Stiles, presenting him with a toothy, beguiling little smile, and _shit_. Stiles goes slightly stiff, and, okay, not cool, his heart feels like it was electrocuted. Body? There will be a talk tonight about this.

Nevertheless, Stiles is no idiot, and, not being such, he can figure this one out pretty damn well. Simply put? _He. Is. Fucked._

And Stiles figures that isn’t the worst part, because he has a distressing little hunch that Derek is well aware of Stiles’ predicament now, too. 

“You need to get going. I need you back in time,” Derek hints, tone sarcastic and hardly subtle. “And thanks. I’ve been craving a Mounds bar for a while.”

Stiles makes a _pfft_ noise, wanting nothing more than to give Derek a good kick in the ass, because, dude, could he sound any more haughty about it? Stiles wishes he had the guts to call him out and say, ‘ _you’re a giant liarface, you probably had one of your stupid Mounds bars yesterday,_ ’ but that would most likely barely faze Derek. Or it’d end up being a point of ridicule that could be used against him. ‘ _Giant liarface?_ ’ Seriously, Stiles needs to get some better insults.

“Fine,” Stiles draws out, exasperated, walking away from Derek and towards the garage door. “Fine, I'll just go out in the hundred-degree heat all by myself on the side of the road, where I could get hit and run over, and then I’ll be the long-lost ‘Barbeque Stiles’, sizzling on the tarmac, and it'll be all your fault because you needed your damn Mounds bar, and I will die alone and go to road-kill heaven, and people will say, ‘oh, that Stiles, he was such a nice boy! Too bad his mechanic was _out to get him._ ’ Enjoy that being on your conscience, you big bag of unwanted car parts.”

Stiles thumps the door shut behind him as he finishes, but not before taking a peek towards the hood of his Jeep, watching Derek, who has a hand clamped over his mouth, trying (and failing) to stifle his mirth. 

Stiles closes his eyes, and his smile feels like it may break his face. He pumps a fist in the air. Screw walking. At this point, Stiles could just as well fly wherever he wants to go. 

‘ _How about that_ ,’ Stiles thinks, smug as he trudges along the road. ‘ _Made you laugh, Derek Hale._ ’

The sun’s setting, two hours later, when Stiles, sweaty, gross, and exhausted, slams open the door of the car garage. He holds his bag of undoubtedly hot, gooey Mounds bars triumphantly over his head.

“I have survived!” Stiles shouts as he makes his way over the threshold. “I have conquered! And I come bearing melted chocolate. Kneel before me, for I am Stiles, protector of candy and all things delicious — except for Smarties because they are disgusting and ruin Halloween — and I have arrived to share my wealth—er?”

Stiles’ eyes dart around; his Jeep is no longer on its platform, most of the lights have been shut off, equipment put away — in fact, both his Jeep and Derek are nowhere to be seen in the garage, and Stiles can’t seem to see or hear anyone inside the entire building other than himself. 

Odd. He starts heading in the direction of the office he knows exists in the back of the garage on the off-chance that maybe Derek or his boss are inside waiting.

“Damn,” Stiles mumbles, making his way to the office door. “That was an awesome entrance, too.”

Stiles scopes out the office a little hesitantly, knocking a couple times. “Hello? Hello? Mister... Hale?”

A handful of minutes pass, but he’s pretty sure no one’s in there. He frowns and looks around. “Dude,” Stiles yells to the barren garage. “I swear, if you’re messing with me right now—”

Did Stiles’ car not get finished and Derek decide to leave? Stiles knew there had been a possibility for that, and his dad was already prepared to pick him up but— something wasn’t right. Why was the door unlocked? And what was he supposed to do with the guy’s chocolate?

Stiles stops by the cubby holes that he’s seen Derek use, figuring he'll leave the bag in one of them. Really, he doesn’t need someone else’s soggy chocolate, even if that person happens to be an attractive mechanic who he’s stupidly infatuated with and keeping said chocolate may increase the possibility of him stopping by Stiles’ house. Stiles pauses. Well, it really isn’t a half-bad idea.

‘ _Yeah, no._ ’ Stiles rationalizes.

Instead, Stiles scans the little tags on the cubby holes for Derek’s, until he comes across one near the bottom, the thin, telltale ‘D. Hale’ plate confirming its owner.

Stiles bends to stuff the bag into Derek’s cubby when he spots a white envelope taped to the inside with his name on it. Next to his name, in genuinely fancy handwriting, there’s a message that says, “ _leave the chocolate in the box. The letter inside has details of your Jeep._ ”

Stiles isn’t thinking too much about the letter, however; he is bug-eyed at Derek’s near-perfect writing. Damn, in what world does anyone have handwriting like that? Stiles begins to unfold his letter absentmindedly, expecting to see some bill for his car—

Stiles gapes. Nope. Not even close.

There, in Derek’s creepily decorative script, is a message that has nothing whatsoever to do with his Jeep. (‘What a giant liarface,’ Stiles thinks.)

> Alright, Big Mouth,
> 
> Here’s $20. That’s going towards the dinner I’m paying for. If you’re late, you’re paying.
> 
> And here’s my number.
> 
> Now, do me a favor. Do **not ever** bother me at work again. I’m serious. Don’t even think about it. Go to another garage if you don’t like it. Or we’ll find out what a barbeque Stiles actually looks like.
> 
> Sincerely,  
>  Your Annoyed as Fuck Mechanic
> 
> PS. Stop running your stupid Jeep into shit.
> 
> And come outside.

Stiles won’t lie; it takes him a while. If his body had been acting obnoxious before, it’s nothing compared to the effects of about fourteen different emotions firing at once; and, to top it off, his brain feels like a useless pile of cottage cheese. He has to read the letter four more times before it hits him.

Stiles is pretty sure his insanely attractive mechanic just asked him out. Derek Hale, cause of some of the stupidest decisions Stiles has ever made (as well as one or two uncomfortably nice dreams), just asked him out. With twenty bucks and the Victorian version of a post-it note.

‘ _Two hours out in that heat_ ,’ he tells himself, mustering up enough brain power to make his way across the garage and to the exit. ‘ _You might be going nuts._ ’

At the door he takes a few deep breaths, trying to get as much Spastic Stiles out of his system as possible. No way is he allowing his body to do those ‘freaking-out-like-a-wet-cat’ things anymore, no matter what’s out there waiting for him.

Looking out, however, the parking lot is barely any different from when he came back: vacant and dark. He starts walking, scanning along the side of the building, but there’s no one in sight.

“‘Come outside,’” Stiles puffs under his breath. “What kind of vague direction is that?” 

(Between this and the tone of the letter, Stiles is having trouble deciding whether he should be frustrated as hell with Derek or be doing little ridiculous-happy somersaults. Oddly enough, his mind seems to be siding with both ideas.)  
After a while, unsure of where else to go, Stiles rounds the corner of the building, and—

‘ _Oh, that’s not even fair,_ ’ Stiles bitches in his head.

Not only is Derek reclining against the driver’s side of Stiles’ Jeep in the most flattering t-shirt Stiles has ever seen, but he’s also pulling off the stereotypical, ‘sexy badass’ pose so well that it looks like he just came out of a movie.

Who the hell even does that?

Derek notices Stiles immediately, but he doesn’t bother to move out of the way as Stiles approaches, which really makes Stiles wonder just how much of this was planned.

“Your car’s done,” Derek announces. Stiles, however, not wanting to be bested, doesn’t reply; instead, he turns, reclines back on his Jeep next to Derek, sticks out his chest, and blatantly mocks his pose.

“Cool guys don’t look at the cars they lean on,” Stiles states matter-of-factly, crossing his arms dramatically.

Of course, Derek stares at him like he’s nuts.

Stiles drops his arms.

“What?” Stiles pipes, bobbing his head indignantly. Derek’s expression doesn’t budge.  
Stiles tenses. “Never mind, then. But, yes, awesome. About the car. And, um, thanks? For the letter. It was very nice—no, actually it was kind of rude—that’s not what I mean, well. It looks like Shakespeare wrote it or something? Why’d you learn to—agh, that’s not what I want to ask,” Stiles rushes out and wants to smack himself. This is not going well. So much for being level-headed.

He hazards a peek at Derek’s face, and, thankfully, under all the glare wrinkles and stubble, there’s the faintest grin forming. ‘ _Okay,_ ’ Stiles thinks. ‘ _Now you have to stop babbling like an idiot._ ’

“Is this a date?” Stiles blurts, forgoing any tact as he holds up his letter.

Derek’s left eyebrow curls upward, again. “What do you think?”

Stiles lets out something akin to a ‘ _raghhh_ ’ and gestures angrily. “That is the single most annoying answer to any question ever, do you realize that?”

Derek’s watches him impassively.

Stiles scowls. “Well?”

“Do you want it to be?” Derek challenges.

Stiles throws up his hands. “Dude, yes? But, okay, I mean, do _you_ want it to be? Because looking at you, and then, well, there’s me, and I look like... me, and it just seems that I annoyed you off so much that—I don’t know. Let’s just humor him, get him out of my face or something? It’s kind of like, ‘why me?’ I guess.”

Derek grunts. “Do you always talk this much?”

Stiles shoots him a sarcastic smile. “What do you think?”

There’s a brief pause, and then Derek cracks, lips twitching upwards.

“Touché,” he yields. He pauses before adding, “And no, you idiot, I’m not _humoring_ you,” Derek drones, as if he were talking to a child. “It’s a damn date.”

Stiles ends up flailing a bit. “Ugh! See? Is that so hard? Why are you so difficult? Being all, ‘oh, look at me, I’m so serious and can’t give straight answers without using all the wrinkles in my forehead!’” Stiles pauses, taking a moment to face Derek in earnest. “Why do you do that?”

Derek almost seems taken aback.

“That’s just how I am,” he says blankly.

“Really?” Stiles tries. “Okay, and this is probably crossing a line but, I know there’s more to you, and, for some reason, you’ve closed it off to me, but I can kind of see it, in there, and you make me stupidly curious, and I just—I want to. Ugh, this is too much, isn’t it? I guess— I can’t see why you don’t loosen up a bit, man.”  
Stiles braces himself, because that was excessive and unwarranted and definitely too personal, and, wow, why can’t he learn to be quiet for once? The guy’s most likely been so cranky because Stiles has been pissing him off.

He peeks at Derek, who isn’t looking at him, face scrunched up and agitated. Still, Stiles inhales, hopeful, because there’s something inexplicably soft and raw there too. A couple moments pass before Derek finally faces Stiles, looking guarded.

“I don’t trust many people,” he confesses reluctantly.

Stiles absorbs this carefully, trying not to flounder or be a giant, socially awkward loser with Derek’s candid information. Hell, Stiles is surprised he still has a date with the way his mouth has been going off. He internally battles for a few seconds before he realizes Derek’s looking at him expectantly, waiting for his reaction.

“Well, you’re screwed with me,” Stiles declares. “I told you I drove my Jeep into a lake, but really I just dumped a bunch of water on my engine so I could come in again. So, uh. Not off to a great start on the honesty thing, am I?”

Derek lets out an unexpected laugh, and Stiles can’t help but smile. “I figured as much,” Derek snorts. “You really suck at subtlety.”

Stiles cringes. “Well, I, uh, really wanted to see you again, I guess, and c’mon. How many excuses are there to stop by a car garage for no good reason? And you just — seemed interesting, and I wanted to get to know you more, and, okay, it was really stupid because I’m going to have to pick up another job to pay for everything, and normal people don’t do shit like that, and, god, how do you not think I’m a some huge creep —y’know, we can just forget this ever happened, okay? You can pretend like you don’t know me. Even though I really do want to go on that date with you, because, well, that sounds awesome and— “

“Stiles,” Derek interrupts, and Stiles’ heart-rate goes berserk because, for some insane reason, Derek looks _happy_ , he looks like he might—

“Yes?” Stiles answers, too quickly. “What?”

“Do you _ever_ shut up?”

“No—oh god, I thought this only happened in porn,” Stiles screeches, jolting backwards as Derek suddenly tips far into his personal space.

“Ugh,” Derek groans, bringing himself close again. Stiles’ retort catches in his throat as Derek stops the barest amount in front of him, and oh, he can feel Derek’s breath on his nose.

“You good?” Derek whispers, grinning like some damn wolf, and holy shit, this is happening.

“Yes,” Stiles gulps, and his heart is pounding ridiculously fast; not only because he has Derek Hale an inch from his face, but because the perfect asshole checked for permission.

“Good.”

Stiles gasps in a shaky breath as Derek shifts forward, and suddenly he’s grabbing a fistful of Derek’s absurdly sexy shirt, and he can hear Derek expel a breath of his own before there’s no more space, and they’re kissing, and Derek’s lips are hot from the balmy, humid air—

‘ _Wow,_ ’ Stiles thinks. ‘ _This first kiss doesn’t suck at all._ ’

Stiles fingers skitter from Derek’s shirt up along his collarbone, sliding across heated, tense skin and settling between the crook of Derek’s neck and his shoulder. Stiles yanks, hard, pulling them closer, because _oh, yes, he wanted this_. He lets his mouth slide open. 

(Yeah, okay, perhaps he's being a little too eager, but whatever. He's horny, and it's been way too long since he last made out with someone, so sue him.)

Stiles can feel one of Derek’s large hands curl into his lower back, and it’s all he can do to keep from moaning, because Derek’s grip is strong and commanding and so possessive, and the implications of that make his chest freak out again.

Derek suddenly breaks the kiss, breathing hard, tongue darting out to briefly smooth over Stiles’ lower lip in an incredibly sexy way. Stiles pants, watching as Derek’s eyes flicker, pupils blown and intense. Before Stiles can react, he’s manhandled back against the Jeep, and Derek is pressing a knee in between his thighs to pin him there. Stiles’ can feel his eyes get big, startled by the movement, and Derek instantly hesitates, a frown crossing his face.

Stiles is amazed, because that’s big. Derek’s not rushing him; he’s giving Stiles the chance to pick his pace and say no if he wants to.

‘ _God,_ ’ Stiles curses and curls his nails into the hair at the base of Derek’s neck. He quickly tugs him forward into another kiss, trying not to think about how he might already be falling in love.

Derek groans, low and deep, arching his neck where Stiles fingers are massaging through strands of his hair. The hand on Stiles’ lower back suddenly disappears, and Derek is grasping blindly for Stiles’ free hand; Stiles finds him halfway, and, in an instant, Derek intertwines their fingers and slams their joined hands against the window of the Jeep. Stiles jerks his hips forward, squeezing Derek’s hand tight, and Derek pushes him back, biting his lip in challenge. 

Stiles finds himself humming, tilting Derek’s head closer with his other hand, and intensifying the kiss so their tongues glide slick and hot against each other. Derek shifts closer, lips pressing hard and fervent, and Stiles can’t help but become keenly aware of his stubble. It’s rough, gritty, and somehow it makes everything in the kiss that more dangerous, because it rubs harder the more intense the kiss gets, and Stiles loves the feel of it kneading into the corners of his mouth and chin.

‘ _Holy shit_ ,’ Stiles muses. This is a far better kiss than he was expecting to get today. Or this week. Or this year. He’s shocked he hasn’t fucked it up yet.

Stiles can feel Derek’s thigh pressing against the zipper in his jeans, and he knows, by this point, that they’re both definitely heading towards similar states of arousal, because _wow_. He shifts his other leg, the one snug against Derek’s crotch, and presses with intent. Derek jolts, head jerking back, and he stares at Stiles with dark eyes.

A long moment passes; they’re both breathing heavily, and Stiles can practically feel the indecision hanging thick in the air.

‘ _Yeah_ ,’ Stiles decides. This is probably going a bit too fast.

Derek’s the first to pull back, disentangling their legs, and Stiles’ hand falls from his hair awkwardly.

“Um,” Stiles begins, gasping out a breath and trying to ignore that their fingers are still entwined. “We should probably— wait until that date, yeah?”

Derek nods, expression stiff and unreadable.

“Yeah,” Stiles concedes. “Okay, well.” Stiles slowly lets their joined hands fall, glancing at them hesitantly. “That was very, uh, nice.”

Stiles’ pulse jumps as Derek rubs his thumb lightly over the back of his hand, once, and, just as suddenly, it’s gone; their hands break, and Stiles lets his arm drop to his side.

Unsure of what to say, Stiles decides to shoot a hesitant grin at Derek and is instantly pleased to get a small one in return. 

“Heh,” Stiles laughs, pushing himself off the Jeep and clicking the door open. “Alright, well, thanks for the work on the Jeep. Do you need me to pay you now, or?”

“It’s been taken care of.”

Stiles eyes bug straight out of his head. “What? Are you kidding? Seriously? What about parts? Service? Manpower? Time? And you’re paying for the date?!”

Derek snorts loudly. “Stiles. Your Dad came in while you were gone and paid. I’m not that nice.”

“Oh,” Stiles breaths, relieved.

Derek rolls his eyes, grinning furtively. “That’s why.”

Stiles blinks. “Wait, why what?” 

“That’s ‘why you,’” Derek alludes. “You’re hopeless.”

“Huh?” Stiles falters; he has no freaking clue what Derek’s on about. “Do you know what you’re even saying?”

“It’ll come to you,” he replies gallingly, patting Stiles on the shoulder.

“Derek,” Stiles exasperates.

“That’s Mr. Hale, Stiles," Derek blatantly mocks, smirking. "Mr. HAY-UHL.”

‘ _You have got to be shitting me,_ ’ Stiles thinks. Yeah, sure, Derek’s some crazy virtuoso at kissing, and Stiles is pretty much having the best day of his entire life, but he doesn’t need Derek’s damn sass. Stiles rubs a hand down his face and groans.

“This is going to be the worst date ever, isn’t it?” Stiles gripes, and Derek has the nerve to look perversely satisfied with himself. 

“See you later, Stilinski,” Derek drawls, swiftly dipping to kiss Stiles’ jaw, before turning and walking away.

Stiles places his fingertips on the kiss-spot and smiles like an idiot. 

“Screw you, Mr. Hale.”


End file.
